


Nameless

by VictoriannWings



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alcohol, Dysphoria, F/M, Gender Dysphoria, Hook-Up, Langst, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Harassment, Trans Character, Trans Lance (Voltron), Trans Male Character, Trans Male Lance (Voltron), Trauma, Underage Rape/Non-con, Vodka, klance, trans!Lance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 10:55:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11416455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoriannWings/pseuds/VictoriannWings
Summary: “Have you ever kissed a girl?” Nyma’s wearing my corset, she’d just braided my hair, and we’re on the floor of my apartment at 10pm and recounting the stories of the people we’ve kissed.





	Nameless

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is some langst for you. Major noncon/rape trigger warnings. I love you all, stay safe, and please comment if you read <3
> 
> If you are experiencing a crisis, are a survivor, or just want to learn more, please check out https://centers.rainn.org/

Most days it comes with an uncertainty. A sort of power, an urgency, summoning up through my veins, through every motion I make and carrying me forward into a world that doesn’t understand. I am wearing a skirt today, and most people don’t understand that that doesn’t affect my gender and I am still a man, even as you call me she and misunderstand, you don’t even know to look beyond the surface.

 I am wearing a skirt today: every step I take down these streets in my clothes the length of my hand, stretched across a body that can’t hold it in anymore. Look at me again like that and I’ll cut you, I’ll flip you off. But maybe that will have consequences, too. Maybe it’ll be graphic. Maybe I deserve it.

 And I’m walking one foot in front of the other and they’re following me, and I didn’t even know they were following me, but I hear their words on the wind and it’s so cold, it cuts to the core of my soul. I am alone in this. I deserve this.

 A woman touches my arm. “Great outfit, girl,” she hollers, but I am not a girl and I am not great. She doesn’t get it, doesn’t know she’s missing anything. I smile because her ignorance is considered an acceptable excuse. I smile because she’s given me a compliment and I’m a man wearing a skirt but she sees a woman.

  -

And Haxus’s hands are on my hips. I am kissing him back. Every time I try to pull away, he pulls me closer. The brick wall digs into my back. His hands aren’t soft, aren’t gentle. It’s all happening in one motion, his tongue down my throat, searching, I taste him back. I taste him and swallow him into my mouth, saliva intertwined, his hands move up my legs, up my skirt. I am not drunk enough for this. I am sober and I’ll remember every moment of this.

 He’s unbuttoned his own pants now, too, and moves one hand over my chest. But he can’t figure out what to do with my binder. That’s evident in how his fingers pause, search for purchase, and find none. He seems to just assume I’m flat-chested and his hands are cold on my thighs. His hands are warm on my thighs. Fingers entering me before I can speak past his tongue in my throat. Before I can tell him that he’s about to fuck a man, a boy, a person becoming something that’s not the _girl_ , the woman he thinks he’s inside. I am nameless, misunderstood, stepping on threads of a fabric unraveling before my very eyes and I cannot stop this cascade. He’s never going to remember me. I am going to have this imprinted in my veins.

-

 I was so drunk I couldn’t move. Showering together didn’t seem like a mistake when you’re twenty-one and inhaling vodka and shaving in the bathtub together because you’re too drunk to stand. Nyma speaks to me the whole time, joins me, warm company, shoulder to shoulder, legs entangled. I’ve known her my whole life. I’ve known her almost longer than anyone else. She kept lifting the cup up to my lips and I gulped the warmth, revelled in its bitterness sliding down my throat. I trust her, with open eyes and slow-moving hands. She smiles back.

 Soft and clean, I wrap myself in a towel and she’s gorgeous, I think. We sit on her bedroom floor and I know she’s going to kiss me. That’s okay; we’re drunk and close friends and I’ll totally make out with you. I’ll totally make out with you.

 But she didn’t ask me, didn’t tell me anything, and within seconds I was on the floor, my back on the ground, and her fingers inside me and moving. I don’t know what to do. I can’t form any thoughts right now, not past the vodka and the emotional vulnerability that crying for weeks in October can do to you. Her hands are all over me, inside me, and I touch her chest in return, because what are you supposed to do. What am I supposed to do.

 One of Nyma’s hands is raised and the _record video_ light blinks on her phone. This will never be something I can forget.

 It’s over as fast as it starts. I pretend this is fun. I pretend I want this. I pretend I’m anywhere near orgasms and stars in my eyes. All I want is to shut them, to make this stop, but closing my eyes does nothing. I just pretend I’ve climaxed, because she’s asking me to. She folds around me on the bed and her boyfriend Rolo comes home and we’re asleep. I didn’t want to be.

 In the morning I am still drunk. In the morning I realise the soreness around my neck is from the bruises she left behind, purple markers to remind me that everything about knowing her for a decade and a half was a mistake. She was supposed to be my friend. She was supposed to understand. She was supposed to _ask_.

  Nobody asks. I am walking through cities nameless and somehow my body is an invitation, my expression is not freedom, I am walking through cities and you don’t care what my name is.

-

 I’m on my back in Lotor’s bed and I’ve said no all night but he’s still pushed his way in so I let him.

 I’ve been thrashing around in bed telling him he can’t kiss me and he’s been touching me everywhere else he could possibly touch and _begging_ me but I don’t want this, I don’t want this, I keep telling myself that, maybe I do, maybe I don’t, but I said no and that should have been the end of it.

 He’s done in seconds. “You didn’t come, did you?” he asks. If he already knows the answer and doesn’t intend on changing it, I don’t know why he bothers.

 I found out later he was seventeen. I was nineteen.

-

I sat down in the seat beside my mother. My friend’s curtains were going to rise from the stage soon. But Nyma was sitting two seats down, her boyfriend on the other side of her. She said she deleted the video. She’d said she had fun.

  
-

I’m sitting on my bathroom floor, back solid against the door. I’m still wearing my bra but I’m holding the packer between my legs and a certain euphoria builds in my stomach. This is _my_ dick. Nobody can take this from me or tell me I’m anything but who I am.

-

 “Have you ever kissed a girl?” Nyma’s wearing my corset, she’d just braided my hair, and we’re on the floor of my apartment at 10pm and recounting the stories of the people we’ve kissed. Rolo took pictures of us wrapped up in each other. I’m in heels and a bra. She’d have me drunk on her floor in a matter of weeks. I could never find the words to speak to her again. Years later, her number popped up in my phone with a text asking me why I wouldn’t speak to her. I spent three hours crying.

-

I told Keith what happened the day after. He told me he was done, that this was one thing he couldn’t forgive. That he couldn’t believe I would betray him like this. I tried to make him understand through tears in my texts that I never wanted this, that I never would have done this on purpose.

 He texted back, “That sounds like rape.”

 The shock hit me like a tidal wave and I gasped for air in the dripping aftermath.

 I cried for three days straight. I cried so hard I couldn’t breathe past the pounding headache in my head. Keith drove four hours to come see me and hold me and let me cry. He was exactly what I needed for two days, and on the third, he left again. Took back everything he’d ever said. I stood alone. He didn’t ask me. She didn’t ask me.

 I called my counselor and he asked me, “Was it violent?”

 “Why does it matter if it’s violent? Why is that relevant? It happened. She took advantage of me.” The rage built up in my chest, took up space from my lungs, made it difficult to breathe.

 “I’m just asking if it was violent.”

 He called me three hours later when I was still lying on the floor but it was dark out now and I hadn’t turned on any lights and the carpet was soft and rough all at once and I answered my phone with numb fingers and he apologised. He shouldn’t have said that, he said, I was right, he said, it didn’t matter if it was violent, he said.

-

It was three am and I’d been sexting Lotor all week but he was kissing me and I told him to leave and his firm hand grasped my jaw and his tongue searched for the _no_ ’s I’d been hiding behind my teeth. I spat them out at him but he kept asking for one more, one more, one more, without asking, without using his words, just his hand that I had to peel away from my face. I all but pushed him out the door and locked it behind him.

He never spoke to me again and somehow that was my fault.   
  
-

 I am a man unwilling to change. I am a person unapologetically myself. I’m yelling _no_ from the deepest parts of my lungs until I cough, and louder, from the depths of my diaphragm, to the top of the mountains, cold crisp air and rising, billowing statements. I am not going to stand for this anymore. I am not here for unclear lines and indefinable moments buried in an avalanche of emotional memories now classified under the big bold word in my heavy heart, _Trauma_ . I don’t have time for you anymore. I don’t have time to let the flashes of her take hold of me, to let the feeling of her, the sound of her voice in the dim three-am light, overtake me as I walk down the road in crowds of misunderstanding nameless people. I am Lance, mountain climbing ocean diving certainty. I am claiming this name for my own, taking it over. It belongs to me and I belong to _me_ and none of you. I am shuddering under this freedom. I am unwilling to wield this power. I have been hunting for it for so many years only to find it stuck under my fingernails. Always with me but tarnished, too little too late, dirty and unusable, just like me. I am more than you think I am. I am crushing the weight of this until these boulders, these mountains, become sand and crumble beneath my footsteps. You cannot stop me. You cannot take this from me. You cannot define who I am.


End file.
